The Space Between Us (25 page)

“Is there a clean towel?” he said. “I would like to take a shower before I leave.” If he noticed the hurt, cowering look on Maya’s face, he did not acknowledge it. “Also, you should wash the sheets
before the night nurse arrives,” he continued. “There’s—blood on the sheets. It may look suspicious.”

She sat on her haunches in the corner, weeping softly to herself while he showered. She felt polluted, her body carrying a scent she did not recognize. She prayed that he would stay in the shower forever, that she would never have to face him again. But after a while she heard the water turned off, and then he was before her, smelling faintly of Yardley lavender soap.

“Listen, Maya,” he said softly. “I was thinking in the shower. Thinking about what…just happened, about what you did. Yes, that was a bad thing you did, tempting me like that, taking advantage of me while I was in a weak mood.”

She started to protest, but he silenced her. “Shhh. Let me finish. What I want to say is, I’ll forgive you for what happened. Provided it never happens again. And provided you never tell anybody what you did. Because poor Dinaz, if she ever found out, God, it would kill her. She’d never forgive you. You understand? She would see it as the biggest betrayal of her trust in you. And with the pregnancy and all, I can’t risk anything happening to her. Remember, the Dubash family has been nothing but good to you and your grandma. They’ve treated you like their very own, sent you to a good college. You have a bright future ahead of you. Now don’t let this one incident ruin your life. You understand what I’m saying?”

Anger provided the steel in her voice. “But I didn’t do anything,” she said loudly. “That is…you were the one who jumped on me like a rabid dog.”

She expected him to lash out at her, but Viraf only studied her sadly, shaking his head slightly. “Maya, Maya.” He sighed. “Now don’t be like this. If you tell anybody what happened, who do you think they’re going to believe? You or me? First of all, I’ll deny everything. Be sensible and don’t do anything to jeopardize either your education or Bhima’s job. Please. Promise me you’ll put this behind you?”

She nodded. Her body hurt, and all she wanted was for him to go away. Before, she had felt remorse, had felt that she had acted wantonly, but she had felt like herself, like Maya. But now, his words made her feel like a prostitute. She waited silently, like a cornered animal, while he collected his papers and locked them in the Godrej cupboard in Banu’s room. He stood at Banu’s bedside for a moment as if debating whether to wake her up to say goodbye, but just then the old woman let out a particularly guttural snore, and he recoiled and tiptoed out of the room.

At the front door, he stopped to look at her, and she noticed that his eyes were moist and heavy with emotion. Despite herself, her heart leapt in hope and in anticipation of a kind word, of a small gesture on his part that would remove this dirty feeling coiling her limbs. Viraf stood before her, biting down on his lower lip, his eyes darting across her face. “Are you okay?” he asked, and when she didn’t reply, a look of annoyance crossed his face. “Come on, Maya, control yourself,” he said. “What happened was—Well, it happened. It’s nobody’s fault, right? Right. Anyway, the night nurse will be here soon. So if you need to, you know, clean up or something, you better do it before Banu wakes up and all. And remember, not a word to anybody. Best if you just put it out of your mind.”

He was out the door when he turned back. “Oh, one more thing,” Viraf said. “Don’t forget to wash the sheets, okay?”

B
hima had never known that hate could have such a jagged edge. That it could feel so uncomfortable, a constant, pressing thing, like a pebble in a shoe or a piece of clothing two sizes too small. Nor had she known of hate’s reductive power—how it took every ancient insult, every old betrayal and gathered them all together to settle in one’s stomach in a single, burning spot. How it soured everything, as if it were a lime squeezed over the whole world.

The young doctor at the AIDS hospital who had muttered a contemptuous “You people.” The accountant who had practically patted himself on his back for taking advantage of an illiterate woman. The old doctor who had ignored the sick Gopal at the hospital until he had gotten a whiff of money and power. Gopal, who had left and taken with him Amit, as if the boy was a bundle of old clothes to be moved from one place to another. Gopal, who had written her a letter that was a kiss and a murder at the same time.

And then, there was Viraf. But here the roaring in Bhima’s ears becomes deafening, like the roar of those planes that she once heard at Sahara Airport when she accompanied Serabai. There is a bitter taste in her mouth that even the chewing tobacco cannot wash away. The hate feels like pinpricks, like tiny needles are stuck all over her body. Her hatred for Viraf is brand new, and it is so sharp and edgy that its points have kept Bhima up all night, have left her
feeling raw and bloodied and bruised this morning. The very things she once loved about Viraf—his beauty, his clean-cut, handsome face—she now despises because she sees them as a mask that hides his cynical, corrupt nature.

How does he feel, she wonders, as she gets up from her mattress, to know that one child of his has been destroyed, even as his wife is ready to give birth to another? Does he consider that a sign of ill luck, the shadow of his dead child falling across the belly of his wife’s happiness? Or does he care so little about his bastard child that he sleeps undisturbed at night, seeing in his dreams only the child, the son, who will inherit his father’s looks, his charm, his wealth, his power? At that last thought, Bhima’s face darkens with fury. And then, from the ashes of that last thought, rises a memory: A ride to the marketplace when Viraf was telling her calmly about how important it is to not waste any more time, to get Maya an abortion as quickly as possible. Child killer, Bhima now rages. What kind of father oversees the death of his own child?

Surely that is why Maya had insisted that Sera accompany her to the abortionist. Serabai, unknowingly supervising the killing of the child who was the dark shadow, the sibling who could someday have been a challenger to the Dubash family’s happiness, to its position in society, its claims to respectability. And Maya had arranged it so that Sera was there at that moment of destruction, when the challenger was silenced forever. Bhima looks over to where Maya is sleeping, and despite her revulsion, she feels a moment’s admiration for the girl. Maya had made sure that the Dubash family was implicated in her child’s death, that some of the dark blood stained their hands forever. Surely Serabai had gone home that day and described the horrors of the clinic; surely Viraf had listened in cold fascination to the story of the killing of his child. Perhaps he woke up in the middle of the night with guilt covering him like a shroud;
perhaps in the black of the night he recognized the damned blackness of his own heart.

But maybe not. Suddenly, Bhima feels old and tired. That familiar slowness falls on her. There is so much she doesn’t know and doesn’t understand. Viraf baba is a man, handsome, educated, rich, and well-traveled. He is everything that she, Bhima, is not. How could she pretend to know what he thinks? Hasn’t she noticed that when Viraf addresses her he talks slowly, as if he expects her not to understand the things he says? And if she couldn’t read her own husband, if she could not guess at the treachery in his heart, why should she pretend to know what weeds grow at the bottom of Viraf’s black heart?

She will tell him that she knows. The thought comes to her as clearly and abruptly as a matchstick lit in the dark. She will let him know that poor though she may be and female though she may be, she is not someone who has to be spoken to slowly; that she is no longer someone who can be fooled by accountants and husbands and patronized by doctors and men who rape her granddaughter. Rather, she is someone who knows him better than his own mother does because, illiterate though she may be, can she not read the corruption of his heart? She will tell him that she knows and that he must fear her now, for she has the power to destroy his current happiness as swiftly as a wind can knock down a house. She will tell him that she knows and that he must keep his hands to himself now, that she will not allow his dirty, nasty hands to pollute the life of any other young girl. She will remind him that his thoughtless pleasure has derailed her Maya’s life, has blocked the path that would’ve taken the girl out of the slum. What she and Serabai had built together, Viraf has destroyed. Women create, Bhima thinks, men destroy. The way of the world.

Today is Saturday, her day to ride to the marketplace with Viraf.
In the car, she will tell him that she knows. That Maya no longer carries his secret for him, just as she no longer carries the symbol of his shame. He will shake and beg her forgiveness, but she will not budge. Some sins are too dark for forgiveness. Even she knows that.

Her new resolution gives Bhima energy. She lifts herself off the mattress, hearing the familiar popping of her hip joint, but today she doesn’t wait to see if the wave of pain will follow. She has no time to pay attention to the creaks and groans of her own body; she is ready to inflict pain on Viraf.

“Come on, beti, wake up,” she says to Maya, nudging the sleeping girl with her toes. “You go fill the pots with water while I prepare the tea. Go on now, I need to be at work early today.”

Is it her imagination, or does Viraf throw her an appraising look when she walks into the house? She has no time to wonder because Sera is reaching out for her hand. “Oh, thank God, Bhima, you are here,” she says. “Have you forgotten about the dinner party tonight? Come on, I need to go over the list of things I need from the market.”

“Er, actually, I was going to go to the maidan a little early today,” Viraf says, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. “So maybe Bhima should just take a cab to the market when she’s ready.”

Before Sera can respond, Bhima speaks. “Hard to find a cab on a Saturday morning. I can leave now, if you so wish.”

“Yah, after all, you’re both going the same way,” Sera says. “No point in unnecessarily spending money on a cab, no?” She smiles. “I keep telling you children, money does not grow on trees.”

Viraf’s face is impassive. “Okay. Whatever.” He addresses Sera, although Bhima is standing right there. “Just make sure she’s ready in a few minutes.”

Sera turns to Bhima while the latter is gathering the cloth bags that she carries to the market. “Ae, Bhima, is Maya feeling well?
She didn’t look very good yesterday. The food at Chowpatty make her sick?”

Bhima keeps her back to Serabai. “It’s not that, bai. After what she’s been through recently, she is still very…”

“I understand.” Sera sighs. “Poor girl. The whole thing is just so unfortunate. Well, as long as she learns from her mistake, some good may come from it. At that age, girls are so…I remember, Feroz and I used to watch Dinaz so closely when she was a teenager. After all, a girl’s biggest asset is her virtue. And you know how things are like in our India, Bhima. Every man wants to marry a virgin. I don’t care if it’s Hindus, Christians, or Parsis, men are the same, no?”

Bhima bites down on her lower lip until she can smell blood.

Sera notices her servant’s stiff back. “That is, I don’t mean to suggest…Maya is such a good girl, I’m sure we won’t have any problems finding a suitable match for her. And really, no one in your community has to know about this one incident. There is a saying in English: ‘What one doesn’t know doesn’t hurt one.’ But no marriage for Maya for many years, I hope. Bas, the best thing is for her to finish her education first. Then we can think of getting a husband for her.”

Still Bhima cannot trust herself to speak. If she opens her mouth, her words will slither out, she knows. Poisonous words, which could leave Serabai with a wound she may never recover from.

Sera comes up behind her. “Chal ne, Bhima,” she says in mock impatience. “How long does it take to decide which bags to take with you? At this rate, I’ll be an old woman before you get back from the market.”

Viraf pokes his head in. “Ready?” he says.

Bhima nods her head, making sure that her eyes focus on a spot above Viraf’s right ear. She does not trust herself to look directly at the handsome face without wanting to claw it.

They wait for the elevator and descend without saying a word to each other. Instead, Viraf chitchats with the liftboy, who shyly reaches out to stroke Viraf’s expensive, gleaming cricket bat. “What you think about this new West Indies team, seth?” the liftboy asks, his eyes still on the bat. He is a tall, gangly youth with protruding teeth that make him look as if he’s always smiling at some secret joke.

Viraf shrugs. “Those West Indians are always great.”

The boy’s mouth widens as he smiles and shakes his head. “Ah, but our India’s team is no less this time,” he says quickly, as if he had expected Viraf’s response. “I say we’ll teach those black monkeys a lesson during the Bombay match.” He leans forward confidentially. “They are saying to show up at the stadium with lots of banana peels. Those African monkeys like bananas. We’re going to throw them on the grounds, when it’s their turn to bat.”

Viraf’s lips tighten with displeasure. “That’s not very sporting, no?” he says. “Things like that give the country a bad name.”

The elevator reaches the ground floor, and the boy jumps up from his stool to open the doors. “True, true, sir,” he says. “Bad idea.” His eyes blink rapidly in anticipation of a tip, but Viraf ignores him and proceeds toward his car with Bhima following a few paces behind. Stupid boy, Bhima thinks to herself. Looks like a shaved rat himself, with his teeth like scissors, and calling other people monkeys.

Viraf turns on the air-conditioning immediately upon getting into the car, but today, despite the warmth outside, Bhima is cold. She leans away from Viraf, trying to keep her teeth from chattering visibly. Her hands are clammy and cold, and there is an icy feeling in her stomach that she recognizes as nervousness. She tries to remember the bold, nothing-to-lose feeling she had this morning, tries to conjure up the hate and aggression she had felt toward Viraf just a few hours ago, but she can’t. It is all she can do to suppress
the humiliating shaking of her body so that Viraf doesn’t see it; it takes all her willpower to control her bowels, which suddenly feel as though they might betray her.

In contrast to his usual solicitousness, Viraf is ignoring her, fiddling with the radio stations. Finding one that he likes, he begins to whistle tunelessly along with a song. Bhima casts a sidelong glance at him—unlike her, Viraf looks completely relaxed and comfortable in his own skin. Even as she knows that this posture of relaxation is a pose, a coat that he has thrown on for her benefit, she admires him for being able to fake it. She decides to try to imitate him and forces her voice not to quiver as she says, “Viraf seth, something I have to tell you.”

Viraf looks straight ahead, his eyes on the road. After what seems to Bhima a long interval, he says disinterestedly, “What?”

She opens her mouth to tell him that she knows, that she will never find it in her heart to forgive him for what he has done, that he has stolen away Maya’s youth and innocence, that she is unsure of whether to repeat to Sera and Dinaz the tale of his dastardly deed.

She opens her mouth, and nothing happens. Her mouth is dry with fear. Her body is openly shaking now, as if she is a single sheet of discarded paper on a windy street. And despite the cold that is seeping into her bones, she feels sweat running down her face. She opens her mouth to threaten him, to curse him, to make him understand her monumental outrage, and what comes out instead is, “Viraf baba, whywhywhywhywhy oh, whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy?” So it is not her words but the sound of them that makes Viraf step on his brakes; it is the wailing, wounded cry of her pain that sounds curious and animal-like even to her own ears, so that for a split second she looks as shocked as he does.

Viraf blanches; he brakes slightly; his hands turn white as they tighten on the wheel; a muscle in his jaw moves compulsively up
and down for a few seconds. Other than this, there is nothing. He continues to drive, keeping his eyes on the road. He does not even condescend to glance in her direction. After a few seconds, his fingers drum silently on the wheel, and from this she realizes that he is waiting for her to continue, that he wants to know what will follow the outburst.

But she is done. She is spent, exhausted, broken. The animal wail sounded piteous and weak to her own ears, and she feels like a small bird who has run into a mountain. Viraf sits in the car, as impassive and impenetrable as that mountain. She cannot touch him, she realizes. Even her hatred from this morning feels puny and laughable now, the equivalent of a child stomping her feet at a parent or a suicidal person cutting herself. Doing what women have done for centuries—turning their rage on themselves.

Because the only weapon she has over him she will not use. She knows this now. The only way in which she can hurt Viraf is to share his disgrace with Serabai and Dinaz, to watch the stain of his shame spread over their faces. And this she cannot do. To do this would mean to destroy the only two people who have ever treated her like a human being, who have been steadfast and true to her, who have never despised her for being ignorant or illiterate or weak. She remembers Dinaz at age five, six, twelve, fourteen, and every memory is sprinkled with rose water, every memory is sweet as sugar and pure as crystal: Dinaz refusing to eat a chocolate unless she can share it with Bhima; Dinaz begging Bhima to sit on the furniture with her when the two of them were alone at home; Dinaz slipping money from her allowance into Bhima’s embarrassed hands. Before there was Maya, there was Dinaz, and Dinaz had loved her with an abandon that perhaps only a child could muster. She remembers Feroz seth laughingly saying to her once, “Arre, Bhima, are you a damn jadoogar or something? How is it you’ve completely bewitched my little girl so? Saala, at this rate you will
have to supervise her school lessons and go meet with her teachers during her parent-teacher meetings.”